Light A Spark
by CitronPresse
Summary: Alex gets some encouragement from a stranger during a rough Christmas.  Set Season 8 - minor, general spoilers.  One shot.


A/N: the movie reference is to the 1946 James Stewart Christmas movie _It's A Wonderful Life_.

* * *

><p><em>In my scarecrow dream,<em>  
><em>When they smashed my heart into smithereens,<em>  
><em>Be a bright red rose come bursting the concrete.<em>

_Charlie Brown_, Coldplay

* * *

><p>There's this cheesy black and white Christmas movie Izzie made you sit through once. About a guy who thought the world would be better off without him and some beat-up looking angel who showed him that wasn't true. You really only half-paid attention; you were more interested in getting into Izzie's pants. But today your thoughts are swirling together in weird, dismal connections and the movie winds its way into your mind. It's getting close to Christmas, Izzie practically trademarked Christmas, so you can't help thinking about <em>her<em>; and, face it, on balance the world would be better off without _you_.

Even when you do the right thing, when stuff seems to be working out for you for a while, when you try and make amends for stupid shit you pulled, life ends up throwing it back in your face. It's like you're freaking cursed; doomed to stumble around in your own karma while the universe laughs in your face.

* * *

><p>Christmas Eve, you're alone in a bar hunched over the latest addition to a series of drinks, bitterly laughing to yourself that this is your own brand of yuletide nostalgia. You used to wait around in bars for your old man at Christmas; now you're the one parked on the barstool, trying to forget what you barely ever got the chance to remember.<p>

A hour later you ring your mom. She's semi-incoherent, but you figure at least that means she's taking the antipsychotics you pay for. You're not sure what you were expecting anyway. Thanks? Apologies? A clue to get you to the next level in the game? It's a little late for any of that. "Merry Christmas, Alex," might have been nice so, instead, you say it to her and try not to sigh too hard when she replies, "Huh? Oh, yeah . . . right . . ." not even knowing what day it is.

You hang up and try your sister's cell.

"Merry Christmas, Amber," you mumble, half-ashamed because you left her to deal with all this shit on her own; half-vicariously pleased that someone in her family is sane enough to wish her what none of them could manage to wish you.

"Whatever," she says wearily.

You swallow, wrong-footed. "How's Aaron doing?"

"Back in the hospital. He was on the roof of some building and . . . " Her voice is resonating with the hostile, jaded shrug she's clearly making in the direction of the phone. "Didn't they send you the bill yet?"

"Amber . . " you begin, but trail off. You have nothing to say that her words and tone didn't already express too eloquently. You left them and send them money; you had to, to save yourself and, as much as they don't see it, to save them too, because who the hell else is going to bail them out; but it doesn't exactly make you the good guy, especially now that you're looking through your sister's eyes..

You don't call Izzie. You spend two hours lying on your bed taking sloppy swigs from a bottle of scotch, intent on not calling Izzie with every ounce of willpower you have. You have no idea what you'd say anyway. Probably just freak her out by breathing creepily down the phone. You still mean what you told her when she left: you deserve better. And you're kind of ashamed that all this time later pretty much everything you have to show for yourself isn't remotely better, only worse, and it's all your own fucking fault.

(You kinda wish you believed in angels. Problem is, any angel worth a damn would probably realize two minutes in that you're a lost cause and quit wasting their time.)

* * *

><p>In the morning, Robbins wrinkles her nose "You realize you stink?" She sniffs. "Of stale alcohol and lack of personal hygiene?"<p>

"Huh?" you murmur, sounding disquietingly like your mom on the phone last night. You're not sure you realize much of anything at all, except that your head hurts like a bitch and you just made it in for rounds on time.

She shakes her head and raises an eyebrow. "You're not coming near my patients until you've taken a shower. A long, hot, super-anti-bacterial one. And while you're in there, try and come up with reasons to remind me why exactly I wanted you to be my new Fellow."

She turns on her heel with the uniquely Robbins combination of perky and sternly disapproving, leaving you less chastened than relieved that at least you now have time to grab the cup of coffee you missed this morning.

You choose the ground floor lobby, sitting down among waiting friends and family, comforted by the relative anonymity of the situation - your scrubs mark you as a doctor, but not any of theirs - as you take too-hot sips of your strong black coffee and contemplate going in for another punishing round of being alive and responsible.

"Dr. Karev?"

The voice is older, wheezy, male and you groan, not caring if he hears, then inhale wearily before turning to face whoever it is.

He's smiling broadly and you squint at him wondering what the hell for.

"Dr. Karev!" he confirms, the smile growing even wider. "I knew it was you!"

"Yeah?" you ask roughly. He's not your patient, you don't have to be nice. It doesn't deter him.

"My grandson!" He doesn't so much speak as smile the words. "He has Cystic Fibrosis. His lung collapsed. You did a thora . . ." His forehead wrinkles. "A thora . . . what's-it-called."

"-coscopy?" you supply, wanting to sound bored, but slightly interested despite yourself.

"That's the fella!" He punches you happily on the arm, not reacting when you retract it. "A thoracoscopy!" His mood softens, he swallows and his eyes tear up a little as he nods to himself a few times. "You saved his life," he says. He smiles. "You remember him?"

There are kids you do remember. The baby you kept alive by skin-to-skin contact; the African kids, in microscopic detail (and not only Zola and all the guilts that goes with her). But this one? Maybe it was a busy day; maybe you were pissed off or miserable or hung over like today; you have no idea.

"Sorry," you say, shaking your head. "I don't -"

"Think nothing of it, son," he says, then pauses for a full three seconds, looking you directly in the eyes. "You probably save a lot of kids' lives."

It's not flattery, it's absolute honesty and, for a moment it's too intense for you. You look down, about to mumble some kind of denial, but the truth hits you. He's right. You do. However much of a fuck-up your life is, a lot of kids are living theirs right now because of you.

You look up again, to thank him or something, you're not sure what, but he's gone, like he never existed, not even a departing back working its way towards the exit.

What the . . . ? You laugh slightly to yourself. Maybe you got your angel, huh?

You ignore the thought a split second later that clearly you're turning into your family's third psycho basket case, finish your coffee and make your way to the nearest shower.

The world can be a crappy place; crappy enough that your presence might sometimes make it a little better.


End file.
